


Hating Blonde

by drinkginandkerosene



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anorexia, Drabble Collection, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:21:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkginandkerosene/pseuds/drinkginandkerosene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Self-destruction is something of an art form with Enjolras, and when Grantaire too seems to get tired of him, Enjolras is tired of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hating Blonde

I wanted to put the cigarette out on my broken veins but instead I sucked the tainted air down into my lungs, so maybe it could burn out the infection that is my being.

I start to keep tally of the friends I lose on my thighs, though right now, they’re hypothetical, because if those lines broke forth, split my skin, I would lose even more, and being alone is worse than ever feeling lonely.

I do them a favour by letting them leave. My friendship is like ivy, I break the life from you, choke you until there’s nothing left.

I have poison lips and a heart of wood, but I’ll never stop being sorry for being someone like me, but apologies can’t fix wounds.

I don’t blame you for being sick from my toxic nature anymore than I could blame the sun for rising.

I wish I shed pounds like I shed people.

People leave, and I watch them go.

I just wish it hadn’t been you.

******

I used to think missing someone was as simple as wanting them.

But it’s not. 

It’s turning to grasp a hand that isn’t there, finding holes in yourself that only they could see, seeing things that not only remind you of them but what you were going to do together or what they liked.

Missing someone is wasted potential and you know I hate waste.

I don’t think someone should ever complete you but sometimes a person can make you bigger, fill out the gaps too small too notice, or maybe even only exist in your head.

Missing someone is cancelling plans and breaking promises.

******

I woke up and ran my fingers down the spine of an old book, imaging instead bones and the softest skin being imprinted under my fingerprints, not old dust. 

And when I sat at the kitchen in the cold morning light, I ran my foot up the table leg, but found only cool wood instead of flushing flesh and breaking laughter.

There are dozens of moments like this in every day, moments where I reach for a hand that was never there, turn to a person who has never been present.

You’re a ghost love, and you’re haunting me, but not like a house. You haunt empty hearts and empty heads, and lungs only filled by air and water. I want to fill my lungs with nothing but your words and your smile. 

I’ve fallen in love with nothing but the barest gasps of touch and muttered confessions to the stars and I’m wondering whether you were even real at all. The more I picture you, the more things fall apart.

I’m falling apart.

I scour the streets for your black hair, a blue scarf but recently I’m just seeing in shades of grey. I’m blinded by mediocrity and routine. 

Nobody else remembers you. It seems like I’ve fallen in love with an idea, and trying to hold onto one of those without writing it down is like trying to hold smoke with fumbling fingers.

So here I am, writing it down, holding the smoke or simply watching it furl around. What is it with humans and trying to hold on to what is already gone? 

Maybe you’ll find me, in some other universe, some other time, but right now I’m the only one in the cosmos who knows who you are and who knows when you’ll come back to me. 

********

Because I miss you in the evening when the sun’s light reminds me to stay gold, and the leaves flutter to ground, and that rustling is probably my favorite sound in the world, but it would probably sound even better with your hand through mine, linking our fingers together like a smokeandcigarette.

Speaking of cigarettes, you’d watch me smoke in the morning (another time when I miss you), me dressed in far too little to be balancing on the windowsill, you half-amused, half-anxious as I swing my legs out, careless as ever.

I’d come back, smelling of ash, and you’d kiss me like porcelain.

I miss you in the afternoons too love, though there’s no sun here. Just rain, but that’s okay too, because rain never hurt anyone. Rain is entirely innocent. I miss you in cold fingertips and red noses. 

I miss you in the night.

*******

I blinked and I missed it.

I guess it was arrogant of me to assume you’d always be there.

You were always so careful to avoid promises. I should have known the signs.

Like how you said autumn was your favourite time of year because everything changed, the colours and the heat and the rain too. You were like autumn, wild, temperamental. I was your winter girl, cold, harsh, unchanging. Frozen.

When you left, you left for someone who was more like summer. Characteristic to my chosen season, I felt numb until I thawed.

I didn’t try to get you back. What would be the point? Both of us unhappy? No. I couldn’t have that. Maybe the thought of being a martyr appealed to me. Maybe I really loved you. Or maybe I just didn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

I didn’t care much for autumn anyway, and I crushed leaves under my feet, waiting for snow.

*******

I like to write poetry to you in

The curve of your back

I whisper it to the arch of your cupped palm like a prayer

And when I’m on my own

I pray you’ll love me too.

(Jehan put me up to this.)

******

I want to know how the inside of your wrists feel on a grey early morning, when it’s too quiet to rain, and the world seems to be frozen, outside this room.

I want to know what you look like when you read a sentence in a book that you want to inscribe on your bones so it becomes a part of you, or failing that, ink it on your skin so you never forget what you once loved.

And god, I want to hear your voice when you care about something so much it makes your chest hurt, so bad your voice cracks, because I think in those cracks you hear a person for real.

I want to know what you think when we’re calm, and we let silence fall between us softer than snow and let our intertwined fingers talk instead.

I want to know you, not just the you everyone else sees. I want to see the you that only the walls do, and only ink and paint and pixels. I want the private moments that you crossed your heart on, and I want you to take a risk on ‘your mother’s life’ that you’d never tell.

I want to know what upsets you. What keeps you awake at night. What you think of when you light a cigarette. And what you feel after.

I’m a selfish creature, but you can’t say I don’t care. I want you to know that.

******

Even before we combined and became a scattered us, I knew you were too good for me.  
It was in the space between us, written in your easy laugh and the colour of your smile that wasn’t yet shattered from knowing the broken edges of me.  
I remember our first argument where I couldn’t bring myself to cry, and I cleaned up your make up afterwards and promised I was sorry instead of promising not to hurt you again.

I don’t make promises I know I’ll break.  
I'm a waking fracture.

(Please come back to me.)


End file.
